


A Flash in the Darkness

by cello_shots



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cello_shots/pseuds/cello_shots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry and Cisco go to New York City for a little business and pleasure.  Mingling with the locals involves a bit more than they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Business Trip

**Chapter 1 - Business Trip**

Barry can't keep the goofy grin from his face as he navigates the sea of pedestrians, faces unnumbered passing in an endless stream. In the past hour, he and Cisco landed, took a cab (they argued over who got to hail the taxi, so in the end they both did) to their hotel, dropped off their luggage, and now walk the streets with real New Yorkers! Well, some of them are probably tourists like him and Cisco, but still. The people they pass have lives, stories, histories, secrets of their own. _So many experiences just on this street alone._

He feels the draw of temptation to sit and people-watch, to wonder at the complex tapestry of interwoven human experiences. Drawing a lungful of air that somehow tastes gray despite the sweet scent of autumn, he shakes himself back into the here and now. People-watching can come later. For now, he and one of his best friends will enjoy their first night in the Big Apple. _Do people really call it that, out loud?_

"Can you believe we're in _Manhattan_?" he asks his friend. With Cisco, he feels no need to try to dampen his enthusiasm to more socially acceptable standards. 

Cisco, also grinning in an open yup-no-doubt-about-it-I'm-a-tourist way, replies, "Dude, I know! I've always wanted to visit this city! It feels like Central City's bigger... older... grungier... much scarier brother. But in a good way," he adds hastily. "By the way, thanks for inviting me along. I wish people in my field had conferences in cool places."

Barry kicks off a section of newspaper stuck to his shoe. "What are you talking about? Didn't you get to go to Zurich a few years ago?"

"Yeah, but I didn't get to _do_ anything. Just conferences and hotel, conferences and hotel." He seems to remember something, snaps his fingers. "Speaking of hotels, I forgot my keycard. Do you have yours?"

Barry nods. "In my wallet, no worries. But that's how forensics workshops tend to go, too, which is why I requested a few extra days to spend in the city."

"Maybe I should do that next time. So... tomorrow... is that a conference day or an off day?"

"An off day. Why?"

Cisco grins and nods toward something across the street. "Let's grab a couple of drinks, mingle with some of the locals."

Barry gives him a look. "You know drinks don't affect me."

"But they affect me, and you can still _mingle_! And maybe we can catch a movie afterward?"

"A movie?" Barry repeats. "We come all the way to Manhattan to see a movie?"

"We can see one of those weird independent films that only get released in, like, three cities. Just for tonight. After your conference starts, I'll find other stuff for us to do in your off time. Cool New York stuff. I promise."

Barry shrugs. "All right. Let's go mingle with the locals. Learn the ways of their tribe. Take knowledge back to our homeland."

The pair wend their way to the nearest crosswalk and wait for the light. The sun set almost an hour ago, but lights from the streets and shops provide a false daylight to see by. At least along the main streets. As they wait at the intersection, Barry can't help but glimpse at the mouths of alleys, alleys that lead to darkness. They are so easy to overlook with so many buildings vying for attention. Buy here! Rent here! See a movie here! Lights and window displays and brightly-colored doorways and awnings. However, a career in forensics has trained Barry to look beyond what the eye wants to see. Between every few inviting buildings, the dark slit of an alleyway acts as a semicolon in a sentence of brick and neon. Pedestrians must cross the mouths of the alleys to continue their trek along the block. Barry shivers, thinking of the birds that sit in the mouths of crocodiles. _Most of the people are here, in the light. Like moths. But what about the people in the dark?_

* * * * *

Barry and Cisco emerge from the movie theater, blinking in the neon signs and streetlights around them. The streets had grown darker as some of the businesses closed up and turned off their lights, subtracting their glow from the false daylight. Fewer people walk the sidewalks, and those that do seem more furtive in their movements; they want to get to where they need to be with as little lingering as possible.

"Okay, _that_ was a weird movie," Cisco admits.

"I think I can see why that one is only released in two cities."

"And we got to see it," Cisco adds. 

"Lucky us." Barry looks around in an attempt to get his bearings. "I'm beat. Can we go back to the hotel? We can do some more exploring tomorrow."

Cisco nods. "Sounds good to me." His jaw creaks in a gaping yawn.

They walk south, retracing the elongated dog-leg path that took them to the cinema. Initially the streets remain far from abandoned, but when they turn east, they seem to leave the rest of civilization behind.

"This... is a little creepy," Cisco says.

"Relax," replies Barry with a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. "You're with me, remember?"

Cisco, lit in the neon of a 24-Hour Bail Bonds sign, flutters his eyelashes at Barry. "My hero!"

"Ha ha." 

"Wait." Cisco stops, puts a hand on Barry's chest to stop him, too. "Did you hear that?"

"Very funny. Go be your own hero."

"No, seriously. Listen."

Barry listens. He hears nothing at first, is about to say so, but then he hears a weak, rasping intake of breath. A groan. A shuffle. Glass bottles scuttling along bricks.

"Is that a zombie? Are there zombies in Hell's Kitchen?" Cisco's eyes are wide.

"I think someone needs help. There. I think it was coming from that alley across the street."

Cisco groans. "Why does it always have to be an alley? Why can't people need help in line at McDonald's or something?"

The man they find there, still somehow upright but leaning heavily against a brick wall, stands more dead than alive. The black clothing he wears bears numerous slashes and reeks of the copper scent of blood; the openings in the fabric reveal openings in the flesh beneath. A wide black blindfold hides the upper half of his face. Or... a mask? His hands are unbound, so he should have been able to remove it if it was a blindfold placed there by someone else.

"Oh my god," Cisco breathes. "We need to call an ambulance, like, right now."

"No!" The man obviously tries to shout the command, but his body proves too feeble to do much more than croak. "No hospitals. No cops. Please." 

"What?" Cisco replies, phone in hand. "We _have_ to, man."

The man pants, catching his breath. Whispers again, "Please."

"Cisco," Barry says, taking in the mask and the clothing. "No phone calls."

"What? Why not?"

"Because," Barry replies, "I think... I think he's like me."

* * * * *

The man stayed conscious--semi-conscious, rather--long enough to guide them to his apartment. Barry was both relieved and disappointed to find that the man lived alone: no one to ask questions, but no one to assist them, either.

"On the couch?" Cisco asks, panting under the weight of the injured man, who sags limply between them.

Barry assesses the severity of the man's wounds. "I think we should put him on a table."

Cisco hurriedly clears off the long dining table while Barry waits, holding one of the man's arms in place over his neck. Cisco returns and takes the man's legs and helps Barry lift him onto the table. The man's mouth hangs slack now, his body dead-weight. Cisco presses two fingers against the stranger's neck. "He's still got a pulse," he reports, "but it's really weak."

"Call Caitlin," Barry says. "We need her help."

Cisco nods, steps away, phone to his ear. Caitlin must be asleep--it is very late--for Barry hears Cisco curse under his breath as he disconnects the call and hits 're-dial.' 

Meanwhile, Barry rummages through the organized kitchen. He finds a pair of scissors nestled neatly in a small plastic bin in a drawer near the refrigerator. Heart beating hard in his chest, he rushes back to the man's side and begins to cut the black clothing away from his body.

The cuts are ghastly. In places, the fabric sticks to the open wounds, and Barry has to gently pry it away; despite his care, fresh blood oozes from each wound as clots pull away with the clothing. Barry feels suddenly grateful for his background in criminal forensics, for it gives him a level of professional detachment which allows him to work. One gash in particular in the man's right side looks mortally deep. Barry wads up some of the shirt he has cut away and presses it against the wound. The man groans but otherwise does not stir.

"Okay, okay, okay," Cisco says briskly, returning to the table. He holds the phone to his ear; Caitlin, Barry realizes, is on the other end. "Um... damn, he's got a lot of cuts. Like, a lot. Oh my god, is that his intestines? -- What? No, his intestines aren't hanging out. Yet. Barry? He's here. Yeah. Here."

Barry looks at the proffered phone. "Put her on speaker." 

Cisco presses a button, then places the phone on the table near the stranger's head.

"Caitlin?" Barry begins, voice shaking. "I really wish you were here right now."

" _Barry, if he's as bad as Cisco says he is, he could die if you don't get him to a hospital right away!_ " If Caitlin had been asleep, she doesn't sound it now.

"I know, but we can't. We promised. Can you... can you talk us through what we need to do?"

" _This... this is meatball surgery! At the very, very least you'd need some sterile bandages. You'll certainly need some needles and thread for sutures. A saline drip or more probably a blood transfusion…_ "

When the man speaks, Barry is so startled that he nearly knocks the phone off the table. 

"There's... a kit..." the man croaks. "In... the hall closet. Medical."

" _Who was that? Was that him? Is he conscious?_ "

Cisco catches Barry's gaze for a moment, then hurries away to find it.

"Barely," Barry replies to Caitlin's question. "I don't think he'll stay that way very long." To the man, he says, "I need to remove your mask. For head wounds and... stuff."

A feeble nod.

" _He's wearing a mask?_ "

Fingers shaking a bit at the tips, Barry tugs at the mask until it slips free from the man's face. The man's dark eyes appear frightened but calm, open but unfocused. They roll back under fluttering lids, and the man slips again into unconsciousness.

"Cisco!"

"Found it!"

The kit is much larger than Barry expected. He hopes this means it will also be stocked with much more than a few Band-Aids and a tube of Neosporin. It is. Barry spouts off the inventory for Caitlin.

" _Okay. Both of you, go wash your hands and put on some gloves. When you've done that, start applying pressure to any bleeders. We need to get that controlled first, then we can worry about the rest._ "

Barry looks at his friend, sees his own apprehension mirrored in Cisco's eyes. He offers Cisco a shaky smile. "How's this for mingling with the locals?"

* * * * *

By the time the last wound has been cleansed, treated, stitched, and bandaged, early morning sunlight casts buildings visible outside the windows in golden light. Caitlin's voice has grown croaky and monotone, and Barry himself wishes he could simply be plugged in to recharge like the phone.

" _How's his pulse?_ " Caitlin asks, exhaustion rendering her voice hoarse.

Barry checks it. His knuckles rasp against the dark stubble on the stranger's jaw. "Still weak... but it's steady."

" _He really should have an I.V. If he worsens, you have to call an ambulance. I don't care what kind of promise you made._ "

"We will," Cisco replies. He looks to Barry, challenging him to disagree.

Barry nods his agreement. "We will."

Caitlin sounds at least a little appeased by this. " _Make sure he drinks lots of fluids when he wakes. He's going to be weak from loss of blood. And even though there were no serious open head wounds, he could still have one that you can't see. Check his pupils. Make sure one isn't bigger than the other._ "

Cisco gently pries open the man's eyes. "Pupils are... both the same size. But really dilated."

" _Do they react to light?_ "

"They don't seem to be."

" _That... can't be good_ ," Caitlin replies.

Barry thinks about the mask, the unfocused eyes he originally attributed to the trauma, how everything he has come across in the apartment is organized neatly in small plastic bins. "Caitlin... could he be blind?"

In his periphery, Barry sees Cisco look up at him, surprised.

" _Well, a lot of blind people still have pupillary reaction to light, but you're right. Some don't react to light. So... barring serious head trauma or, um, death... yeah, he could be blind._ "

After getting a few more instructions from Caitlin, Barry ends the phone call. He and Cisco stare at each other for a moment over the body on the table. 

"Should we carry him to his bed?" Cisco ventures.

"I dunno. I don't think we should move him any more than we have to." He looks around. "How about the couch? Help me move the table over there. We can use it like a gurney."

Cisco holds up a finger. "Wait, let me put down some towels in case his wounds… leak." He shudders slightly, then rushes off, returning moments later with an armful of towels, which he spreads across the couch. That done, he returns to the kitchen and takes an end of the table.

Shuffling awkwardly, Barry and Cisco inch the table as close to the couch as they can, needing only to lift the man a very short distance from the surface of the make-shift gurney to the cushions. But even in those few inches of movement, Barry holds his breath as though the stranger is made of gossamer, or a bubble frozen in winter, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. 

Moving the table back to its original location is a moment's work. More familiar with the layout of the apartment now than Barry, Cisco disappears once more up the hallway. He returns with a pillow and blanket from the man's bed.

They work to make the unconscious stranger as comfortable as possible. With the last of their own adrenaline wearing off, Cisco and Barry wobble about the apartment, creating pallets out of found cushions, towels, and spare blankets. Cisco curls up in a corner, turning his back to the cold light coming through the giant double windows, paned and arched and hearkening back to another era. Barry takes a spot on the floor between the couch and the two arm chairs. He likes that the seats are arranged to face each other. Does this man have friends over often? Do they sit here and converse about their lives? Barry can almost picture it: the man in black sitting on the sofa, two friends sitting opposite him in the chairs.

Do those two friends know how close one of their own lingers to death?

 _Don't die, man._ Barry pulls the blanket up higher around the man's shoulders.

Eyes feeling dry and grainy, Barry settles into his own nest of towels and blankets, and allows his lids to slide shut. He welcomes the darkness.


	2. The Man in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt is starting to look a little more lively. He and the pair who saved him become better acquainted.

**Chapter 2 – The Man in Black**

Barry is somewhere in between sleep and wakefulness. Somewhere in his consciousness, he knows it is daytime; the sounds of city traffic weave like a spider's web through his fractured dreams.

In his dream, he runs through the familiar avenues of Central City, chasing the Reverse Flash (he really needs to get Cisco to come up with a better name). Barry pushes with everything he has, yet he never gets any closer to the other speedster.

"Hurry, Barry!" Iris's voice pleads from some unknown location. "You're too slow! You're too slow! You're too _no… no… NO!_ "

Barry's eyes snap open. Those final words were not dream-fiction. They came from the waking world. It takes him a moment to remember why he is lying on the floor beneath a ceiling he does not recognize, but then it comes back to him. 

"No…" the man on the couch says again. He struggles to sit up. 

Alarmed, Barry jumps to his feet. His back protests after just having spent the night on the floor, but he ignores the flare of pain. "Hey, no, don't do that!"

Breathing in shallow gasps, the man turns his face toward him, but his eyes remain unfocused. 

_He_ is _blind…_

"You should lie still," Barry offers as explanation. "You're hurt. Really, _really_ badly."

The man, who looks to be in his early 30s, allows his body to relax back into the cushions. His breath releases in a long, pained sigh. "Who are you?" he asks. So calm. So very calm.

"Um, I'm Barry. Barry Allen." He realizes he is holding out his hand. _Idiot._

The man smiles. The expression looks vulnerable and lost in the face riddled with bruises, cheeks and brows held together with butterfly sutures. "You're holding your hand out, aren't you?"

Caught off-guard, Barry laughs. "Uh, yeah."

"It happens a lot." The man holds out his own hand, which Barry takes; the stranger's grip is chilly and weak in Barry's. "I'm Matt." His face turns almost imperceptibly. "Who's sleeping in the corner?"

Barry blinks. "Wow. How did you—…oh, the snoring."

Matt smiles again, this one reaching his eyes with a little less pain.

"That's my friend Cisco Ramon. He and I found you. We, uh, wanted to take you to a hospital, but…" His voice trails away. He gazes at Matt's warm brown eyes—soulful, broken—and forgets what he means to say.

"Thank you. For doing as I asked." Matt's voice is soft and gentle as the drone of traffic outside. 

Barry settles himself into one of the chairs opposite the couch. 

"It can't have been easy," Matt continues, "finding a total stranger, in the condition I was in, who didn't want to go to the hospital. Most people would've called 9-1-1 anyway. Or left me there. You and your friend Cisco, you didn't."

Cisco continues snoring softly somewhere behind Barry.

Since the subject is broached, Barry ventures, "So… what happened to you anyway?"

A beat passes. Another. The truth would have been here by now. Barry braces himself for a lie.

"It's… a case of the less known, the better," Matt says, a tinge of apology in his voice.

Not a lie, then. But not the truth, either. 

The man changes the subject before Barry can dwell overlong on it. "How long have you been in New York?"

Barry frowns. "Is it that obvious?"

"You have a bit of an accent," Matt says with a smile. 

"I do?"

"Everyone does. Yours is just… not native New York."

"Cisco and I have been in New York for…" He glances at his watch. "…about 12 hours now."

Matt barks a laugh, but obviously regrets it immediately.

"Easy!" Barry warns, hands held palm-out. "There's not much holding you together right now."

Matt's brow furrows. His expression grows uneasy. "Could you get me some water, please?"

"Oh! Yeah." Barry jumps to his feet, grateful for the opportunity to do something useful. He goes to the kitchen area, finds a tall glass. "Ice?"

"Just water is fine."

Barry pours almost as much water as the glass can hold and carries it over to Matt. He helps him sit up enough to drink. "Caitlin said you need to keep hydrated to help keep your blood pressure up. Blood loss. You should be in a hospital. You probably need a transfusion, to be honest."

Matt pulls away from the drink, sated for now, winces as he lies back down. "Caitlin?"

"Our friend in Central City. That's where Cisco and I are from. She's a doctor. She talked us through what we needed to do to help you." Barry is glad Matt can't see the look of chagrin on his face. "Your stitches aren't very pretty. They got better as we went along, though. And we finally got the bandages to stay."

Matt chuckles, winces again, a hand going to the deep gash in his right side. "There's a bit of a learning curve."

"Are you a medic or something? Your kit isn't your garden variety first-aid kit."

"My dad was a boxer," Matt says. "I learned the importance of having a well-stocked medical kit." His eyes grow vague, and his lashes begin to flutter.

At first Barry is alarmed, but then realizes the man is simply exhausted. "You should get some rest. Is there anyone we can call for you?"

Matt doesn't answer. He is asleep.

* * * * *

"You are a worthy opponent. It is an honor to claim your life."

Metal. Sharp. Hisses through the air. Pain slices fire hot, soul deep.

"You are deserving of a warrior's death. You have fought well, but it is not enough."

It's not enough. It's never enough.

Large man. Tall. Thick. Strong. Educated. Passionate. Unbalanced. Looms above, raining blows.

_No… No… Foggy. Foggy, I need help. Foggy. Foggy._

"Foggy… Foggy … Foggy…"

The disjointed dream logic scatters like dandelion seeds, wafting away on unknown drafts. Matt reaches for his phone, but pain draws him up short.

"Foggy … Fog—"

Voicemail will have to get it, then. Matt tries to remember what day it is. Saturday? Sunday, maybe? Foggy's call might not be work-related. Matt feels a little less guilty about not answering it. Besides, he still needs to come up with an explanation for his appearance before Foggy or Karen see him.

The room begins to take shape around him. It began with the knell of the phone's robotic, somehow plaintive repetition of his friend's name—a slow throb of flashes helping him identify where he is in the living room, though the couch beneath him also told him as much. A warming glow of city noise from the window. The scent of pavement that has warmed under the sun for about five hours, though cooler months make it more difficult to tell for certain. 

Matt smells milk and cereal. Clothes that are not dirty but are no longer fresh, either. Not his own—these are laundered with a different detergent than what Matt uses. Someone is in the kitchen area, washing a bowl and spoon in the sink.

"Hello?" Matt says. The force required to push out that one word puts his abdominals into clamps. He winces.

The sound of water from the faucet stops at once, the slight squeak of the hot tap warming the room there, showing a silhouette of a man who is turning away from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. "Oh, hey! You're awake!"

The voice belongs to a young man, but not the same one Matt spoke to this morning. Had it been this morning? The stranger sounds so genuinely pleased that Matt can't help but to like him immediately.

The young man—Cisco? Matt thinks that is his name—moves closer as he speaks. "Your phone, um, rang? A few times. I didn't answer it. I wasn't sure if I should or not."

Matt dismisses Cisco's concern with a weak brush of his fingers through the air. "My business partner. He's used to my not answering the phone, though he complains that it makes him worry that I've fallen down an open manhole."

"What kind of business are you in?" A friendly question. No trace of prying or suspicion.

"We're lawyers." A beat passes and Matt chuckles. Sometimes the jokes write themselves. "That's not why I was attacked."

That was a slip. More information than the strangers in his apartment need to know. _Watch yourself, Matt._

"So you _were_ attacked. I mean, not that it wasn't obvious. Not the right sort of wounds for a car accident or something, not unless you were hit by a truck carrying butcher's knives or something." A nervous shuffle. "Ah, sorry. Barry mentioned you didn't want to talk about what happened. Oh, I'm Cisco, by the way."

"Matt," he exchanges, holding out his hand. Cisco takes it, his hands still warm and slightly damp from the sink faucet.

"I… don't think I've ever shaken the hand of someone lying flat-out on a couch before."

Knowing the agony it will bring, Matt tries to stifle the chuckle that rises in him at this remark. He's not entirely successful. "I've never shaken someone's hand _while_ lying flat-out on a couch before. Well, before today, anyway. Your friend had the honor of being the first. Where is Barry, by the way?"

Cisco has risen and is a few strides away again in the kitchen area. "He actually has a conference to go to tomorrow, so he went back to the hotel to get some of our things." He opens a cupboard, retrieves a glass, fills it with water, and returns to Matt's side.

Matt accepts Cisco's aid in getting to a semi-upright position. The youth grabs another pillow from nearby and props it behind Matt's back, giving him a little more support and elevation. "Thanks," Matt says, and is glad that he at least has enough strength to hold the glass by himself this time. "What sort of convention?"

"Forensics."

"Forensics?" Matt echoes, impressed. "He a student?"

"Nope. Heh, I know he looks really young. I mean… _sounds_ …young?"

Matt can detect the warmth growing up Cisco's face, and he likes him all the more for it. "You don't have to walk on eggshells. But yes, he does seem very young."

"He's older than what most people think. Well, not a _lot_ older. But he's not eighteen or anything. He's been working for CCPD for a couple years now. Central City Police Department."

Matt can't sense the coffee table nearby. They must have moved it to make room for sleep. He holds his glass out. "Could you?"

"Sure thing." 

The heft of the glass is lifted from his hand as though he has just been relieved of a 75-lb weight.

"Do you work for the CCPD as well, Cisco?"

Cisco settles into the left armchair. "No, actually I work for S.T.A.R. labs as a mechanical engineer."

Matt is impressed a second time. " _You_ seem too young for that, too."

Cisco laughs awkwardly. "Heh, yeah, well, let's just say I didn't get many dates in high school."

A strange pulse in the air outside the open window grips Matt's attention, a surge that he has only felt once or twice, before a terrible storm. He breathes the air, feeling his wounds pull at their sutures as he does so, but he smells no ozone, no far-off rain, no wet pavement.

His front door opens, startling him. He hadn't heard anyone approaching.

"I'm back! Oh, hi, Matt! It's good to see you awake again. How are you feeling?"

"Barry, hello." Matt tries to find the strange surge again, but the phenomenon has passed. An odd wind-tunnel effect in the streets between the skyscrapers, perhaps. Strange things happen. He returns his attention to his guests, his rescuers. "I'm … alive. At least one would hope there's not this much pain in death."

Barry sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Yeah. I stopped at a drug store and got some things to restock your kit."

Matt is touched by this. "Oh. Thank you."

"Caitlin told me what sort of pain meds to get. I couldn't remember what you had in your kit here when I called her, and it has to be stuff that won't thin the blood because… well… bleeding." 

Plastic bags rustle and come to a rest atop the island's countertop. Matt hears Barry steel himself with a breath. "Is there someone we should call for you? Family? You shouldn't be here alone." 

Matt shakes his head. "No family."

"What about your business partner? Froggy?" Cisco asks.

"Foggy," Matt corrects, chuckling. "I'll call him a bit later."

Barry shifts his weight from foot to foot. "We should probably get out of your hair, then."

A memory rises from the muddled thoughts, sudden and unbidden. "The other night," Matt says, "the night you found me. You said… you said that I was like you, Barry. What did you mean by that?"

"Uh…" Barry's heartbeat speeds, pounds harder. "Um… that you… have secrets to keep." He makes his way over to one of the armchairs and sits. "I figure that anyone who is wearing a mask has secrets to keep."

_And what secrets do you have to keep, Barry? What are you hiding?_

"And you trust that the secrets I keep are…" Matt hesitates, searching for the right word. "…honorable?"

Barry's heartbeat slows. "Yes. I don't know why, but I trust you." An exhale of breath through the nose—a laugh. "Even if you _are_ a lawyer."

Matt chuckles and accepts the joke as a means to divert the conversation. He isn't exactly sure why—it will complicate matters—but he says, "Hotels in Manhattan aren't exactly cheap. You both are welcome to stay here. We can try to fix up sleeping arrangements that are a little more comfortable."

"Oh, hey," Cisco says, "that's really nice, but… that'd be a hassle, wouldn't it? I mean, you've got your routine set up here, and you don't really know us—"

"I know that you two, without knowing me, very literally scraped me off the ground in an alley, and stayed awake all night putting me back together again. Saving you several hundred bucks in hotel fees? That's the least I can do." Matt smiles in their direction. "Plus, it would help me. I'm not exactly up to tap-dancing yet. And… like I said… I don't have family."

He doesn't have to see to know that Barry and Cisco exchange glances, carrying on a brief conversation with their eyes.

Cisco is the first to reply. "Only because it'd be helping you."

Barry adds, "We accept."


	3. Yesterday's News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry wonders if the dark side of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen might be true.

**Chapter 3 – Yesterday's News**

Barry sits at a round table in a high-ceilinged room, a nametag in a plastic sleeve hanging from a lanyard around his neck. He tries to pay attention to the PowerPoint presentation, but he keeps slipping back into counting the _ums, ahs_ , and _uhs_ muttered by the speaker. The topic itself interests Barry—a more accurate way to take into consideration shade, sunlight, and night in the cooling time of a corpse—but the balding man at the podium does not have the gift of public speaking.

"If the, ah, sun is, ah, at a 45-degree angle from the, um, horizon, with a clear sky and, uh, and average, uh, temperature of…"

_Kill me now_ , Barry thinks, then smiles at the follow-up thought: _I'm in a room full of forensic scientists. I'd have the best shot in the world of my killer being brought to justice._

At least the Captain will be glad that Barry saved the department some money by checking out of the hotel yesterday. Budgets never seem to grow, only shrink. The saved money could go toward latex gloves or something.

_"In my condition, I might not be able to jump up and answer the door,_ " Barry remembers Matt saying this morning, _"so here's a spare key. Don't lose it. Not even my best friend has a spare key."_

The PowerPoint presentation lasts another two hours. Afterward, a break for lunch. More presentations to choose from. Nothing extremely interesting jumps out at him for the rest of this day, the first day of the 3-day long conference. _I could go back to Matt's,_ Barry thinks. _Make sure he's okay._

Of course, Cisco would have called or texted if something was wrong. But Barry thinks again of the calming effect Matt's voice has and compares it to the three-hour PowerPoint Presentation of Monotonous Doom, and decides that he's had enough for the day—especially with the shoddy sleep he's had since arriving in Hell's Kitchen. He surreptitiously peels away from the crowd heading toward the restrooms and, briefcase in hand, makes for the exit. 

The moment he finds a place offering a little cover, he picks up speed, dashing between cars and pedestrians, them all seeming not to be moving at all, or at best very, very slowly. Sounds that aren't being carried with him also change with his speed, elongating, becoming warbled nonsense. He finds that when he's not in his Flash suit, he misses the voices of the team in his ear, something to ground him to this plane of existence. When he uses his speed, if he doesn't hear from his team often, he can begin to feel so very alone, out of sync with the rest of the world.

He thinks that if he ever became stuck in super-speed, he would go mad from loneliness. _If I didn't die of burn-out first._

Barry makes his way back to the building in which Matt lives and comes to a stop. Tumbling bits of debris caught in his wake fall to his feet. One, a torn page of a newspaper, catches his eye. Barry reaches down, pulls the paper from the pile of leaves and cigarette butts. The grainy photo on the front shows a man dressed in black, wearing a black mask, standing in the midst of a ring of fallen officers. The huge font declaims "THE DEVIL OF HELL'S KITCHEN." Only half of the first paragraph is legible, and it doesn't give much information; the rest is torn away. The puzzle is too incomplete. 

Barry feels his lunch sitting uncomfortably in his gut. _Is Matt… a cop killer?_ It goes against everything Barry believes in to develop an opinion without weighing the evidence, but with the black-and-white photo looking him right in the face… _Is that why he was so adamant we didn't take him to the hospital or call the cops? No, my feeling about him couldn't be that far off. Could it?_

Feeling shaky and pretty sure it isn't due to a sugar crash, Barry folds the piece of newspaper into his pocket, enters the building, and climbs the stairs to Matt's apartment. He turns the key in the lock and opens the door. A hush sits in the apartment like a presence of its own. Apprehension growing, Barry makes his way along the short corridor that opens onto the living room and kitchen. 

_The Devil of Hell's Kitchen… dead cops… what if it'd been CCPD?_

He rounds the end of the hall and pauses, taking a visual inventory of the room before entering. Matt appears to be asleep on the couch; Cisco sits cross-legged on the floor near one of the windows, playing a game on his phone. 

Cisco catches Barry out of his periphery and looks up. "Hey!" he whispers. He stands up and tiptoes over to Barry, wincing as though expecting to step on bubble-wrap at any moment. "You're back early."

Barry looks toward the man lying on the sofa, looking vulnerable. "How's he doing?" he asks, also in a whisper.

Cisco shrugs. "He wanted to walk around the apartment a bit. To see how much he could move." The engineer shakes his head. "I told him it wasn't a good idea, but he did it anyway."

Barry blinks. "How did it go?"

"He made it to the bathroom and back, but that bad cut on his right side started bleeding."

"What? Did he—"

"He's ok," Cisco interrupts, whispering. "I took a look under the bandage. Sutures are holding. And Caitlin said it's normal for him to bleed a bit. Buuuut she also said that he shouldn't be moving around, either."

Barry sighs, puts his briefcase on the counter.

"Now that you're here," Cisco continues, "I need to go find a store."

"Why?"

Cisco gives him a sheepish grin. "I ate all his cereal."

Chuckling, Barry says, "I could do that for you, you know. It'd take a lot less time."

"Thanks, but I need to stretch my legs." Cisco steps into his shoes and zips his hoodie. He nods toward Matt. "He's been mumbling in his sleep. Fist, I think he's saying? He's been pretty out of it. I think the walk to the john took it out of him."

Barry worries about the pallor of Matt's face but is not surprised by it. "All right. I'll keep an eye on him." 

He hands the key off to his friend and sees him out the door, and the presence of the silence settles in again like a drowsy tiger, curled up about Barry and Matt, daring someone to disturb it. Not knowing what else to do, Barry makes his way over to the armchairs and sits. Something rustles in his pocket when he does so, and he realizes that he has almost forgotten the about the torn newspaper photo. He pulls it out again, unfolds it, and studies the grainy image.

The silence curls about him more snugly, enticing him with its dangerous comfort. Outside, the city drones like a beehive. Iris sits beside him, smiling. He smiles at her, too. But her smile begins to crumble around the edges. Her sparkling eyes become wells of horror. 

Barry knows what he will see before he turns around, but he turns anyway. Can't help himself. Lying in a circle on the floor are Joe and Eddie, eyes staring blankly, the stillness of their bodies terrible. Other members of the CCPD are there, too. There's Jason, the new recruit who is getting married next month. And Sara, who has a whip-crack sense of humor that she never uses to hurt anyone. Mark has been on the force for almost as long as Barry has been alive, but now he lies in a pool of sticky blood, his gray-speckled hair also speckled with red.

In the midst of this halo of corpses stands the man in the black mask, looking down upon his work. His back is to Barry, but he turns slowly, ever so slowly, and when he faces Barry, his eyes are glowing red coals that illuminate the horns growing from his temples. They curl upward and back, tendrils of flesh hanging off of them as they gleam blackly in the ambient Manhattan light coming from the windows.

"Barry," the Devil says. "Barry."

"Barry?"

Barry starts awake. He feels disoriented and groggy, almost half-sick, his thoughts mired in the swamp of sleep. "Wha-?"

Matt's eyes are open, his face turned in Barry's direction, gaze fixed on a spot unknown by either of them. "I think you were having a bad dream."

"Oh. Sorry. I must've fallen asleep." Barry sits up in the chair. In a moment of horror, he realizes the newspaper photo has fallen to the floor. He snatches it up and crams it in an outer pocket of his briefcase before Matt can see it. 

_Stupid, he can't see it._

With that realization, his heart rate slows. At least until Matt asks, "What did you pick up just now?"

"Uh, um, oh, a piece of paper from the conference. It fell off my lap when I was sleeping. How are you feeling?"

A pounding at the door. " _Matt? Hey, Matt. It's Foggy. You in there?_ "

Matt starts to sit up. A hand goes to his side and he sucks a breath in through his teeth.

"No, you stay there," Barry orders, already standing and heading toward the door. "I'll get it."

Surprisingly, Matt nods his agreement almost immediately. "Thanks."

Still feeling a bit light-headed from his sleep, Barry opens the door. A man gazes back at him from a mildly plain face—wideset blue eyes, a nose that sits a little too high above his mouth, stringy blond hair. He seems the type who would be short and pudgy, but he is actually tall and pudgy.

"Uh, hi," Foggy says, obviously thrown off of what he planned to say when the door opened and it wasn't Matt. "Who are you?"

"Oh, um, I'm Barry. Barry Allen?"

"Ok, Barry Barry Allen, where's Matt? He called in sick today and I can't get him on his cell."

"In here, Foggy," Matt's voice calls.

With a glance at Barry, Foggy steps into the apartment and makes his way down the hall, leaving Barry to close the door and follow after him.

"Holy _shitballs_ … Matt! What happened to you, man?" Foggy stands at the entrance of the living room, staring in horror at the man on the couch. "Jesus!" 

Struggling, Matt sits up, somehow managing a smile. "Just a little accident. It looks worse that it is."

_Not true_ , Barry amends to himself. _It's just as bad as it looks, if not worse._

"What sort of accident?" Foggy rounds on Barry. "Do _you_ have something to do with this?"

Years of learning and experience vaporize from Barry's head. He's never done well under interrogation. "Uh… uh… uh…"

"It was my fault," Matt answers, saving him. "It was… stupid. I thought I heard the crossing signal, and I stepped out and got hit by a car."

Foggy's attention returns to Matt. "Hit by a _car?_ Jesus, Matt. Are you going to sue? You should sue. We could use the money."

Matt shakes his head. "No, it happened so fast. Hit and run. No one got a plate. Besides, like I said, it was my fault. I stepped right out in front of them. Barry here, and his friend Cisco, they helped me."

"I could have helped you, too, Matt. I'm your best friend. You have to let me know about things like this." 

"I know," Matt replies. "I didn't want you to worry. Besides, the pain medication the doctors put me on really knock me out."

Some of the tension eases out of Foggy's shoulders. He runs a critical eye over the unprofessional bandages. "What, they get the new guy to patch you up?" He blows out a sigh as he sits, as if that chestful of air was all that had been keeping him erect. "Well, from the look of you, you're gonna be out for a few more days."

Matt's head bobs with apology.

"Karen and I," Foggy continues, "we're going out tonight. In memory of Mrs. Cardenas." He runs his hands over his face. "They're saying the Masked Man did this one, too. Like those cops."

Barry's heart twists in his chest. His gaze snaps to Matt.

"Why would he do that?" Matt replies. "He's been targeting criminals."

"I don't know. I don't know. He's probably working with Wilson Fisk."

_Fisk?_ Barry ponders. _Was he saying 'Fisk' in his dreams, and not 'fist'?_

"I don't know if we'll ever be able to touch Fisk." Foggy rises with an air of finality. "Welp, I'm going out to get very, very drunk."

"It's a Monday," Matt says, "and I can't help at the office tomorrow, remember."

Foggy sighs. "Okay then, just regular drunk. Call if you need anything. And would you… pick up the damn phone when I call? …though I guess this time I was right to worry." He gives Barry an appraising look. "Keep an eye on him." With that, he leaves the apartment.

Barry stands at the window, watching Foggy cross the parking lot and disappear around a corner. "Matt," Barry begins without turning. "Did you kill those cops?"


End file.
